I will never know if he
truely understood my meaning,
even after all my words,
about poppies in the
carpet, but I
think he must have felt it
reverberate through the
Metasphere nonetheless,
why he said,
“You want, I mean,
it makes you want to turn the page and find
resolution there; it makes
you want to believe in Hope.”
The next day, I
wrote on the subsequent page:
*There is Nothing for you Here*
The word anguish came up in conversation.
My shirt today is wrinkled.
I ironed my dress yes-terday to impress a stranger.
I will never know why
we walk, what we
think we’ll find there–
like a mantra that
guides us to paradise,
the prayer in perpetual motion,
the sacred overture in footprints.
Are we running? No.
There is too much desperation in speed;
I have other ways.
Once I drank nothing
but milk so I could
taste the iron of my
own tongue.
It never brought me close enough.
I must be here for something.
Do you know?
This is the heart.
Holy God-dess. I am so glad you’ve kept writing my dear sweet flower of Brooklyn. Love,
Face
It is good that you did not stop writing and happy gooseberry days
http://gatelesspassage.com/2011/09/04/haggle-baggily/
“There is too much desperation in speed;
I have other ways.
Once I drank nothing
but milk so I could
taste the iron of my
own tongue.
It never brought me close enough.
I must be here for something.
Do you know?
This is the heart.”
THE BEST parts for me, you have a quite a talent. I enjoyed this abstract piece, kudos!!!
Happy gooseberry day!!!
http://lynnaima.wordpress.com/2011/09/06/legerdemain/